King Horn

Horn in herte leide
Al that he him seide.
He yeode in wel righte
To Rymenhild the brighte.
On knes he him sette
And sweteliche hure grette.
Of his feire sighte
Al the bur gan lighte.
He spac faire speche;
Ne dorte him noman teche.
‘Wel thu sitte and softe,
Rymenhild the brighte,
With thine maidenes sixe
That the sitteth nixte.
Kinges stuard ure
Sende me in to bure.
With the speke Ihc scholde;
Seie me what thu woldest.
Seie, and Ich schal here,
What thi wille were.’
Rymenhild up gan stonde
And tok him bi the honde.
Heo sette him on pelle,
Of wyn to drinke his fulle.
Heo makede him faire chere
And tok him abute the swere.
Ofte heo him custe,
So wel so hire luste.
‘Horn,’ heo sede, ‘withute strif
Thu schalt have me to thi wif.
Horn, have of me rewthe,
And plist me thi trewthe.’
Horn tho him bithoghte
What he speke mighte.
‘Crist,’ quath he, ‘the wisse,
And yive the hevene blisse
Of thine husebonde,
Wher he beo in londe.
Ihc am ibore to lowe
Such wimman to knowe.
Ihc am icome of thralle,
And fundling bifalle.
Ne feolle hit the of cunde
To spuse beo me bunde.
Hit nere no fair wedding
Bitwexe a thral and a king.’
Tho gan Rymenhild mislyke,
And sore gan to sike.
Armes heo gan bughe;
Adun he feol iswoghe.
Horn in herte was ful wo,
And tok hire on his armes two.
He gan hire for to kesse,
Wel ofte mid ywisse.
‘Lemman,’ he sede, ‘dere,
Thin herte nu thu stere.
Help me to knighte,
Bi al thine mighte
To my lord the king,
That he me yive dubbing.
Thanne is mi thralhod
Iwent in to knighthod,
And I schal wexe more,
And do, lemman, thi lore.’
Rymenhild, that swete thing,
Wakede of hire swoghning.
‘Horn,’ quath heo, ‘wel sone
That schal beon idone.
Thu schalt beo dubbed knight
Are come seve night.
Have her this cuppe,
And this ring ther uppe,
To Aylbrus and stuard,
And se he holde foreward.
Seie Ich him biseche,
With loveliche speche,
That he adun falle
Bifore the king in halle,
And bidde the king arighte
Dubbe the to knighte.
With selver and with golde
Hit wurth him wel iyolde.
Crist him lene spede
Thin erende to bede.’
Horn tok his leve,
For hit was negh eve.
Athelbrus he soghte
And yaf him that he broghte,
And tolde him ful yare
Hu he hadde ifare,
And sede him his nede,
And bihet him his mede.
Athelbrus also swithe
Went to halle blive.
‘Kyng,’ he sede, ‘thu leste
A tale mid the beste.
Thu schalt bere crune
Tomorewe in this tune.
Tomorewe is thi feste;
Ther bihoveth geste.
Hit nere noght forloren
For to knighti Child Horn,
Thin armes for to welde—
God knight he schal yelde.’
The king sede sone,
‘That is wel idone.
Horn me wel iquemeth;
God knight him bisemeth.
He schal have mi dubbing
And afterward mi derling.
And alle his feren twelf
He schal knighten himself.
Alle he schal hem knighte
Bifore me this nighte.’
Til the light of day sprang
Ailmar him thughte lang.
The day bigan to springe,
Horn com bivore the kinge,
Mid his twelf ifere;
Sume hi were luthere.
Horn he dubbede to knighte
With swerd and spures brighte.
He sette him on a stede whit;
Ther nas no knight hym ilik.
He smot him a litel wight
And bed him beon a god knight.
Athulf fel a knes thar
Bivore the kyng Aylmar.
‘King,’ he sede, ‘so kene,
Grante me a bene.
Nu is knight Sire Horn
That in Suddene was iboren.
Lord he is of londe,
Over us that bi him stonde.
Thin armes he hath, and scheld,
To fighte with upon the feld.
Let him us alle knighte,
For that is ure righte.’
Aylmar sede sone ywis,
‘Do nu that thi wille is.’
Horn adun lighte
And makede hem alle knightes.
Murie was the feste,
Al of faire gestes,
Ac Rymenhild nas noght ther,
And that hire thughte seve yer.
After Horn heo sente,
And he to bure wente.
Nolde he noght go one—
Athulf was his mone.
Rymenhild on flore stod,
Hornes come hire thughte god,
And sede, ‘Welcome, Sire Horn,
And Athulf, knight the biforn.
Knight, nu is thi time
For to sitte bi me.
Do nu that thu er of spake,
To thi wif thu me take.
Ef thu art trewe of dedes,
Do nu ase thu sedes.
Nu thu hast wille thine,
Unbind me of my pine.’
‘Rymenhild,’ quath he, ‘beo stille;
Ihc wulle don al thi wille.
Also hit mot bitide,
Mid spere I schal furst ride,
And mi knighthod prove,
Ar Ihc the ginne to wowe.
We beth knightes yonge,
Of o dai al isprunge,
And of ure mestere
So is the manere,
With sume othere knighte
Wel for his lemman fighte,
Or he eni wif take;
Forthi me stondeth the more rape.
Today, so Crist me blesse,
Ihc wulle do pruesse
For thi luve in the felde,
Mid spere and mid schelde.
If Ihc come to lyve,
Ihc schal the take to wyve.’
‘Knight,’ quath heo, ‘trewe,
Ihc wene Ihc mai the leve.
Tak nu her this gold ring,
God him is the dubbing.
There is upon the ringe
Igrave, ‘Rymenhild the yonge’.
Ther nis non betere an onder sunne,
That eni man of telle cunne.
For my luve thu hit were,
And on thi finger thu him bere.
The stones beoth of suche grace,
That thu ne schalt in none place
Of none duntes beon ofdrad,
Ne on bataille beon amad,
Ef thu loke theran
And thenke upon thi lemman.
And Sir Athulf, thi brother,
He schal have another.
Horn, Ihc the biseche
With loveliche speche,
Crist yeve god erndinge,
The ayen to bringe.’
Horn tok burdon and scrippe,
And wrong his lippe.
He makede him a ful chere,
And al bicolmede his swere.
He makede him unbicomelich
Hes he nas nevremore ilich.
He com to the gateward,
That him answerede hard.
Horn bad undo softe
Mani tyme and ofte.
Ne mighte he awynne
That he come therinne.
Horn gan to the gate turne,
And that wiket unspurne.
The boye hit scholde abugge;
Horn threu him over the brigge,
That his ribbes him tobrake,
And suthe com in atte gate.
He sette him wel lowe,
In beggeres rowe.
He lokede him abute,
With his colmie snute.
He segh Rymenhild sitte
Ase heo were of witte,
Sore wepinge and yerne;
Ne mighte hure noman wurne.
He lokede in eche halke;
Ne segh he nowhar walke
Athulf his felawe,
That he cuthe knowe.
Athulf was in the ture
Abute for to pure
After his comynge,
Yef schup him wolde bringe.
He segh the se flowe,
And Horn nowar rowe.
He sede upon his songe,
‘Horn, nu thu ert wel longe.
Rymenhild thu me toke
That I scholde loke:
Ihc habbe kept hure evre—
Com nu other nevre.
I ne may no leng hure kepe;
For sorewe nu Y wepe.’
Rymenhild ros of benche,
Wyn for to schenche,
After mete in sale,
Bothe wyn and ale.
On horn he bar an honde,
So lawe was in londe.
Knightes and squier
Alle dronken of the ber,
Bute Horn al one
Nadde thereof no mone.
Horn sat upon the grunde;
Him thughte he was ibunde.
He sede, ‘Quen so hende,
To meward thu wende.
Thu yef us with the furste;
The beggeres beoth ofthurste.’
Hure horn heo leide adun,
And fulde him of a brun,
His bolle of a galun,
For heo wende he were a glotoun.
He seide, ‘Have this cuppe,
And this thing ther uppe.
Ne saw Ihc nevre, so Ihc wene,
Beggere that were so kene.’
Horn tok hit his ifere,
And sede, ‘Quen so dere,
Wyn nelle Ihc, muche ne lite,
Bute of cuppe white.
Thu wenest I beo a beggere,
And Ihc am a fissere,
Wel feor icome bi este,
For fissen at thi feste.
Mi net lith her bi honde,
Bi a wel fair stronde.
Hit hath ileie there
Fulle seve yere.
Ihc am icome to loke
Ef eni fiss hit toke.
Ihc am icome to fisse;
Drink to me of disse.
Drink to Horn of horne,
Feor Ihc am i-orne.’
Rymenhild him gan bihelde;
Hire heorte bigan to chelde.
Ne kneu heo noght his fissing,
Ne Horn hymselve nothing;
Ac wunder hire gan thinke
Whi he had to Horn drinke.
Heo fulde hire horn with wyn,
And dronk to the pilegrym.
Heo sede, ‘Drink thi fulle,
And suthe thu me telle
If thu evre isighe
Horn under wude lighe.’
Horn dronk of horn a stunde,
And threu the ring to grunde.
The quen yede to bure,
With hire maidenes foure.
Tho fond heo what heo wolde—
A ring igraven of golde,
That Horn of hure hadde.
Sore hure dradde
That Horn isterve were,
For the ring was there.
Tho sente heo a damisele
After the palmere.
‘Palmere,’ quath heo, ‘trewe,
The ring that thu threwe,
Thu seie whar thu hit nome,
And whi thu hider come.”
He sede, ‘Bi Seint Gile,
Ihc habbe go mani mile,
Wel feor biyonde weste,
To seche my beste.
I fond Horn Child stonde,
To schupward in londe.
He sede he wolde agesse
To arive in Westernesse.
The schip nam to the flode,
With me and Horn the gode.
Horn was sik and deide,
And faire he me preide:
“Go with the ringe
To Rymenhild the yonge.”
Ofte he hit custe,
God yeve his saule reste.’
Rymenhild sede at the furste,
‘Herte, nu thu berste,
For Horn nastu namore,
That the hath pined the so sore.’
Heo feol on hire bedde
Ther heo knif hudde,
To sle with king lothe,
And hure selve bothe,
In that ulke nighte,
If Horn come ne mighte.
Ac Horn anon hire kepte.
He wipede that blake of his swere,
And sede, “Quen so swete and dere,
Ihc am Horn thin owe;
Ne canstu me noght knowe?
Ihc am Horn of Westernesse—
In armes thu me cusse.’
Hi custe hem mid ywisse,
And makeden muche blisse.
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